a journal of fantastical poetry


by Ada Hoffmann

So many times I sketched an outstretched hand
like glass, twisting the light
of street-lamps through its palm,

then shook my head
and buried the page with old magazines.

Later, unknowing,
you crept in anyway. You said,
"I dreamed of a woman made of glass, like this,"
laid out a page in your own hand,
and met my eyes.

May 1st, 2013

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